Musketeers Whumptober 2019
by Vivien99
Summary: 31 Days of whump! - I've finally decided to post my whumptober stories I wrote for AO3 also here.
1. 1 Shaky Hands - Aramis

Between the women he was famous for his good looks and irresistible charm.  
But in the ranks of the Musketeers he earned appreciation for his steady hands.  
No matter how hard a target was to hit, he never missed. No matter how much blood seeped through a wound, his needlework was still one of the finest.

So it was even more interesting, somehow even disturbing to him, that his hands shook NOW.  
Aramis remembered only a few times in his life where his hands had betrayed him. But none of the situations was anything like this one. This one wasn't as dangerous or as painful as his memories.  
So why did his hands shook so hard that he feared to let his precious freight fall?

"Thank you, Monsieur."  
The light voice of the Lady in Waiting rang in his ears as if she screamed at him. Her soft smile seemed so evil and her idle hands seemed way too rough as they wrapped around the small bundle in his arms.

He felt his heart skip a beat and the warmth that had spread in his stomach changed to something much heavier, that pressed on his chest and stopped his breathing.

His fingers felt clumsy as he let them loose, not able - nor allowed - to speak back to the Lady in Waiting. His feelings and thought are treason enough, he didn't need to rouse any more suspicion.

So, reluctant, he let the child being carried away by the woman, leaving him alone in the entrance hall of the Queen's chambers.

The mere minutes in which the Lady in Waiting had been gone to fetch some fresh towels, in which he was able to hold the child - Louis - his son (no, he wasn't allowed to even THINK about it. It was a sin. Treason.)- in his shaky hands seemed like an eternity as well as a fleeting moment at once.

He breathed in deeply, trying to get the storm of feeling that raged in his body to calm down, put his shaking hands into the pockets of his trousers and walked out of the chambers, out of THEIR life's, to continue the one as a childless Musketeer. And once he had left the chambers, had greeted his brothers with a easy, wide smile and slipped into his doublet, his hands were steady again.

Actions


	2. 2 Explosion - d'Artagnan

2\. Explosion

Harsh breaths left his mouth, sparkling a burning fire in his lungs and tired muscles. The sword in his hand felt heavy after hours of swinging it and he wondered how he was supposed to fight just another battle.  
He didn't have much time as they stormed the castle, battle cries shaking the stone walls and sending waves of adrenaline through his veins. Still, his body arched and the throbbing pain in his calf seemed to have gotten worse through all the running. But there was no time to check or to pause.

His brothers had already engaged into battle again. Tirelessly they fought off enemy after enemy, slitting throats, smashing heads, shooting through torsos. If d'Artagnan would have had the time, he would have watched in awe how these men fought. Though he had had his own fair numbers of fights and squirmishes, nothing had ever been like this. Nothing would ever be like war.  
And even after years of fighting with the older musketeers, side by side, he found that he get them to know in a different way now. They all had fought in wars long before he became a musketeer and using their experience now.  
It had been only few seconds in which he had watched them before his opponent came charging up to him. The spanish soldiers were mostly well skilled, so it wasn't an easy battle as steel crashed on steel. Still, d'Artagnans swordmansship was still searching it's peers – apart from Athos, of course – and he pushed the Spaniard further backwards.

He just lunged out for the killing blow as a flickering flame in the back of the courtyard, they had invaded, caught his intention. Home, fire meant warmth and light – security. But in war a flame always meant death. Was it the lit of a musket or of a canon – it was made to kill. So he slayed the enemy fast and efficient with a slash through his throat before he stepped to the side to identify for what the flame was intended.

It was too late as he saw it.

"RETREAT!"

D'Artagnan lunge towards the exit, which was placed on the other side of the courtyard then the dangerous flame – and unfortunately him too. Out of the corner of his eye he cought the glimpse of Athos, still struggling with his opponent. One more look back to the flame, almost reaching it's target, he jumped and tackled both, Athos and the Spaniard, to the ground and as far away from the bomb as possible.  
He had been not a single second too late as light blinded him and screams were drowned in the sounds of an explosion.

Then, it was darkness.  
…

"NO!" Aramis struggled against the tight grip of Porthos around his torso as flames invaded the courtyard. The one they were able to run off just in time, just because of d'Artagnan who had warned them. D'Artagnan who had still be in there.  
Porthos grunted as a uncoordinated fist of his friend hit his stomach, but remained stubborn.

He waited until the explosion had settled, the sound of wood and bodies cashing against stone stopped and smoke darkened the deathly still courtyard.

The moment Porthos let his hands loose, Aramis had slipped out of them and ran into the darkness.  
Of course, Porthos had followed. It had been just as hard for him as for Aramis to just watch as the bomb exoploded, with Athos and d'Artagnan close by. But there was no sense to run into death by themselves.  
So he followed Aramis through the darkness, stumbling more often than he found a steady step, trying to ignore the cries of pain and death around them. More soldiers had followed them, searching for their own comrades.  
Porthos wanted to shout for his brothers, but all came out was a rough cough as smoke filled his lungs.

There were still small places that burned, debris and soldiers scattered along the ground.  
Somewhere between them they had to be. He gulped down the bile that threatened to rise at the thought that they could have been thrown through the air, shattered against one of the high stall walls or crushed by a beam.

Then, causing his heart to race a hundred beats faster, Aramis shouted his name. He hurried after him, hadn't even noticed that he had fallen behind. Aramis had crouched down in front of a small mount of bodies. In the darkness, Porthos couldn't tell how many men – or parts of men – laid in front of his friend. What he could tell was that Athos sat there, leaning heavily against Aramis who spoke in hushed tones with their brother.

As he came closer, Porthos noticed dark stains of blood covering Athos' face and hands, the Captain shuddering under heavy coughs. "Get him out of here. He needs fresh air and water. The wounds are superficial." Aramis explained fast and turned to one of the bodies on the ground, Porthos and Athos already forgotten.

The bulky man didn't really think that these kind of wounds should be called superficial, but as long as Aramis said that Athos was save to move, he was okay with it. So he slung one of the Captain's arms around his shoulder and carried him away. "D'Art?" Athos asked between shuddering breaths.

"Don't know." Porthos explained, too focused on the task Aramis had given him. In situations like this, Porthos had learned to follow his brothers lead who always seemed a lot calmer around injured than he himself. As much as he wanted to find d'Artagnan, he knew that he had to help Athos when Aramis ordered him too.  
So he guided his brothers out of the courtyard and onto the field, where fresh air greeted them. He found a discarded waterskin and held it to Athos' grey lips. The man gulped the contents down before almost choking on a cough.

"D'Artagnan?" He asked again, eyes almost falling shut – either from exhaustion or the head wound, Porthos guessed. He was worried for Athos, who's gaze didn't seem to focus on anything and with coughs still wracking his body.

"Aramis has surely found him by now." Porthos assured. He had no doubt that Aramis had searched and found d'Artagnan, but in which condition the boy would be he couldn't know.

"He saved me." Athos whispered, hands fisting in Porthos' shirts as if to emphasize his point. "Saved my life." Porthos nodded, putting a warm hand on Athos' own.

"Aramis has him."

….

His fingers prodded around the wound, caused by a part of a beam which had plunged itself into d'Artagnan's thigh. He couldn't just rip it out, too high was the risk that d'Artagnan would succumb to blood loss after a short time. He needed medical supplies. Unfortunately, Aramis had lost his small bag hours ago in a fight.

He cursed, words his mother would be ashamed to here, as the blood of his friend coated his fingers.  
A groan form the body beneath him forced his eyes away from the wound and to the ashen face of his brother.  
"Mis?" D'Artagnan asked, clearly disorientated and in pain.

"I'm here. Don't move, d'Artagnan. Do you here me? Everything will be fine, just do what I say." The boy nodded, eyes now closed again as he breathed through the pain he had to feel.

Again, Aramis cursed. He wasn't sure what to do now.

TBC.


	3. 3 Delirium - d'Artagnan

He awoke slowly. Darkness turned into various shapes, moving too fast for his tired eyes. Additionally to the soughing sound in his ears, there were voices, sounding like they were under water, the words too fast spoken for his muddled mind.

And then there was this burning fire in his lungs, taking away his breath. Suddenly he felt panic seizing around his heart. What had happened? Where was he?  
He tried to speak, even though he didn't know what to say. But once he opened his mouth a cough wracked his weakened body and the fire spread into his sides and throat. He gasped for air, arms and hands searching desperately for something – anything to hold onto.

Soon they found something warm and soft, but also somehow rough, squeezing his hand. The voices grew louder, but still they were drowning in the soughing sound. His heart skipped a beat as he noticed the something his hands had found was a hand. Who's hand was it? Was he in danger?

In his muddled mind he couldn't remember that this touch was familiar, was comforting.  
All d'Artagnan knew was that there were strangers around him.

And then, like a wave breaking, memories flooded his mind. The war, the blood, death. An explosion. And then… nothing. Had he been taken prisoner?

He tried to wriggle out of the grip of the stranger, but it only tightened around his hand. Then, there were hands on his body, holding him down. The voices shouted now, still he wasn't able to make out the words. Maybe because they were spanish?

His breath grew faster as he tried to struggle free. But they were too strong, there were too many trying to hold him place. What would they do to him?

He found the answer way too easy as a searing, hot pain erupted in his leg. He screamed, ripping his dry throat apart. It felt like an eternity until the fire burned down and was replaced by a pulsing pain, making his head dizzy.

The answer was torture.

He gulped but didn't try to break free again, suddenly feeling too weak for any kind of fight. That he still wasn't able to hear or see properly, the people around him still blurring shapes of brown, sedated him even more. Like this, he would not be able to escape anyway.

…..

"e's burnin up." Porthos mumbled, his hand still on the lads brow.

"Already?" Aramis cursed, hands gripping the wood, that was impaled in the boys leg.

Weak coughs were wracking d'Artagnan's body, making it even harder to keep the beam secure in it's place. "Is the blade hot enough, Athos?" Aramis asked, not even bothering to turn around.

The man in question didn't answer, he merely stood beside their selfmade medic, holding an angry red dagger.

Aramis nodded satisfied and took the blade before murmuring a swift prayer. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan, but this has to be done…. Hold him still."

Complying both Athos and Porthos took hold of the lads leg and arms, making sure he would not hurt himself or Aramis in the upcoming process.

With his free hand, Aramis ripped the wood out of the leg in a swift motion – causing the barely conscious musketeer to scream and fight against his brothers. Aramis tried to ignore the screams and the nausea forming in his stomach. Fast and effective he cleaned the wound, emptying a bottle of wine above it and then pressed the hot blade onto the fast bleeding wound.

The smell of burned flesh reached his nose and he had to hold back a gag as he kept it on his brothers leg until the wound was closed.


	4. 4 Human Shield - d'Artagnan Aramis

_Thank you all for your lovely reviews._

"What on earth were you thinking?!" Aramis growled after pushing d'Artagnan off him and got his feet back on the ground.

The lad looked shocked at the sudden outburst, opening his mouth before closing it again without uttering a word. Not that Aramis gave him any chance.

"This was stupid. Thoughtless and stupid. You could have get injured or worse." The marksman hissed, but didn't even bother to give d'Artagnan any more attention. Instead he gathered his musket and some of the balls, that had been scattered on the ground, together and stamped away.

D'Artagnan still stood on the same spot as he did after standing up. Standing up because he had pushed Aramis to the ground, because someone had tried to SHOOT him, pushed him to save his life.  
His brow was furrowed in not only confusion but also hurt, as he tried to understand why his brother was so furious with him. Of course something could have happened… but it didn't. And wouldn't d'Artagnan have pushed him down, Aramis would have been hit by the well aimed bullet.

Suddenly there was a big hand on his shoulder, squeezing in a comforting gesture. "Don't take it too personal." Porthos muttered, eyes fixed on the retreating marksman.  
"I don't understand why he's so angry." D'Artagnan admitted, totally lost.

Porthos smiled in sympathy, patting the lads back. "He's lost someone important to him, because he had played human shield to save Aramis. He's still not over it."  
D'Artagnan's lips formed a silent 'O' and suddenly felt bad for trying to save Aramis. Not for the act itself but for reminding him on something that he obviously didn't want to be reminded off.

"Who has he lost?"

Porthos sighed.

"His name was Pierre. He was one of the first Musketeers. Came to the regiment at the same time as Aramis. Pierre had been older and more experienced. I think he was some kind of mentor to 'Mis back then. It was in the Siege de la Rochelle where Pierre had saved Aramis. Through himself in the way of a bullet that had been meant for 'Mis. He was dead before he hit the ground. It was also the day I first met Aramis. Helped him to carry the body back. Haven't seen him silent like then ever again."

"I'm sorry." D'Artagnan muttered, not really sure if he was sorry for playing human shield, remembering Aramis of this bad day or for the loss he had to take. Maybe for all three.  
Still, d'Artagnan knew that he had done the right thing and would do it again.


	5. 5 Gun Point - Aramis

The rain poured down hard onto the dirty streets of the city, causing his boots to squeak with each step and drops to hit him in the face, despite the hat he always wore.  
Aramis sighed. After a long mission like this one he would have loved a lengthy walk. Unfortunately it seemed that he would be confined to his apartment for the evening. Of course he could join Athos in The Wren, but Aramis just didn't feel like it. He wanted some peace, also the reason why he didn't go to one of his mistresses. D'Artagnan and Porthos still were on duty at the palace, where he just had come from.

On the other hand, it had been long since Aramis had stayed a night in, simply reading and relaxing. Maybe it would do him some good.  
He hadn't even reached his door as he fumbled for his key, wanting to get out of the rain as fast as possible. Reaching his apartment, he opened his swiftly and stepped into the dry, but still cold room. The door fell into it's lock, but then another tell telling 'click' sounded as loud as a bomb in the small room.

Aramis would notice the sound of a gun being unlocked everywhere. His hands flew to his own, secured to his belt while he searched the room for the intruder.  
He had hid behind the door, already pressing the cold metal against his exposed neck.

"If you want to live, you should keep your hands where I can see them."

Aramis nodded, holding his hands up as he turned to look his attacker in the face. A face he didn't know. The man, broad and tall looked a bit gruff with his unkept beard and hair – otherwise there was nothing special on him.

"Who are you?" Aramis asked, his voice lightly as if he was chatting with some friend. Only his posture, tensed and ready to fight any second, gave him away.  
The man frowned and took a step back – and so the gun out of Aramis' reach. "I'm the one who asks the questions." The attacker answered gruffly, pointing at the gun in his hand – which was now aimed directly at Aramis' head.

"Then ask. But if it's only answers you seek, why don't we put our weapons aside and talk like civilized men?"

"You put your weapons down, I keep mine. How does that sound, huh?"

Aramis sighed. He really didn't like where this was going. As he slowly opened his weapons belt he thought about pulling one of the guns out, but the intruder was too close to miss his own shot. Too high was the risk to be killed before he could even raise his arm.

So Aramis did the only thing that he could: he followed the orders and put his weapons onto the ground before straightening again, hands now hanging down by his sides.

The man seemed satisfied, still he held the gun pointed at Aramis as he took a look through the room as searching for something. Aramis followed the man's gaze, just now noticing how destroyed and messy his room was. The intruder must have searched for something before he came home. But what could it be?  
The man gave him the answer to the question easily.

"Where are the letters you got from the Comte de Lusignan?"

"Not here and not with me."

The man growled, shaking his head. "I saw you riding away with them from the estate. Give them to me."

Clearly annoyed Aramis rolled his eyes. Did the man think him stupid? Even if he had the letters – what he most certainly didn't, because he just gave them to Cardinal Richelieu at the palace – he would not just give them away.

"I don't have them. Not anymore. I'm sorry, mon ami, but you're too late."

The lines on the intruders face deepened in fury but he still didn't give in, ordering Aramis to take off his doublet.

"They're already with the consignee." Aramis once again rolled his eyes but did as asked and dropped his wet doublet to the ground.

"Your boots and trousers."

"Listen, if you want to see me naked you could just take me out nicely." A weak smile played across his lips as the intruder growled but didn't back down.

So, Aramis stripped down to his briefs and shirt, revealing absolutely nothing. Because, as he had tried to explain to the man, he had nothing of value with him.  
Slowly and painfully noticing his fallacy, the intruder cursed.

"Turn around." He then hissed through gritted teeth.

Aramis heart sank. Whatever the man had in mind would not end good for him.

Carefully he turned his back to the weapon still pointed at him, his eyes falling to the floor where his weapons laid, so close and still too far.

"Hands on your back and on your knees."

He slowly sank to his knees, the wood digging into his flesh as he put his hands behind his back as asked. He heard two fast footsteps, knowing that the man had to be right behind him now.  
Hoping that his calculations where right, Aramis took the only chance he saw to get out of this unscathed. He turned around fast, one hand ready to hit the man and his leg trying to kick at the intruder's ones.

And, as he had thought, the intruder stood right behind him. Unfortunately, he was already moving the butt of the pistol into the direction of his head.  
There was no time to fight it off or to dodge before the weapon collided with his skull sending a hot wave of pain through it.

Unconscious, and sluggishly bleeding from the head wound on his temple, Aramis fell to the floor.

The intruder left unseen.


	6. 6 Dragged Away - All

Athos

"Don't you think you had enough, mon ami?" Aramis asked, his voice sounding light and teasing but it was laced with concern.

"Leave 'e a'one"

Athos had slumped on the table, one hand securing the bottle the others holding up his head, which probably would have fallen onto the table otherwise.

"C'mon we'll bring you home." Porthos offered, one hand reaching for his friends shoulder. However, Athos just slapped at it before taking another sip of his bottle.

"'m fine." He muttered, eyes almost falling close. Still his grip on the battle was deathlike.

"Athos. You're on duty in the morning. When the Captain sees you like this…"  
D'Artagnan sighed, as Athos once again only flapped his hand in an silencing gesture to return to his drink.

D'Artagnan, who had run out of patience by now, they all were tired and he wanted to go back to Constance, pulled the bottle of his friends grasp an positioned it on the table behind him.

That caused the first real reaction from their friend. Athos' head shot up, fire burning in his eyes as he stumbled to his feet. "Don't you dare." He hissed and tried to grab d'Artagnan's collar. The action was not only hindered by the alcohol in his blood but also by Aramis who stepped between the two.

"Enough! I don't care how drunk you are, I won't let you hurt the lad our yourself because of it!" It was the marksman who now grabbed Athos' collar, shaking him slighty before holding him still and hissing into his face. "You will now let us bring you into your bed and you won't argue. You will do as we say so that you can come to morning muster tomorrow and won't be court martialled."

Aramis saw how Athos needed a few seconds until he could comprehend the words before he slumped in his friends grip. "'m sorry." He mumbled against Aramis' shoulder, who slung an arm around hi in order to support him.

"It's okay, mon ami." Aramis sighed. "Let's get you home."

It needed the three of them to drag Athos out of the tavern and away from the bottle but in the end they made it to his apartments and managed to get him drink some water and lay down.  
And as angry as they had been, they would do it again and again for their brother.

Porthos

As he way a child, barely five years old, he had been pulled from his mothers' slack arms and dragged out of the room and onto the streets. He had been dragged from the one life in poverty to the next one.

Then, on the streets, he built his own life with his own friends – family. He had made a good living with stealing and cheating, burglaries and ambushes. But he never felt right there. He never felt good. And wasn't it that what life was supposed to feel like? Good?

So, he had dragged himself out of the Court of Miracles, out of hell and into the infantry.  
There, for the first time in his life, he felt good with the things he did. He was happy with his job. But he was alone. The skin of his colour betraying him each and every time he tried to find something like he had back in the Court. A friendship he could rely on, a brother who would have his back.

Years later, Treville had found him.  
They have had many discussions then.

Treville wanted him for the Musketeers and Porthos, oh he really wanted too. But it just felt so wrong. The Musketeers regiment was famous for their excellence, for their honour but most importantly for all the noble within it's ranks. He, a brute form the Court of Miracles with dark skin would not be welcomed there.

So he declined, again and again.

He shook his head and turned away until Treville took his arm firmly. He had dragged him through the gates. Something that shouldn't have been able with Porthos so much taller and stronger – but he didn't really fought back, because a part of him wanted to be dragged there. Wanted to be given another chance.  
And Treville had pulled him towards a table with four musketeers. Two of them left once Porthos arrived, but the other two stayed. One of them, younger than him with long brown hair smiled broadly at him, extending his hand.

"I'm Aramis."

And with this simple handshake, with this welcoming smile and the respect and friendship Aramis had offered him from the first minute, he had pulled Porthos into a new life full of happiness, pride and family.

D'Artagnan

"I'm sorry." He mumbled, planting another kiss on her hair.

"It's okay, you know that." She smiled at him, her hands caressing his cheek. Then her eyes fell on the men behind him, waiting. "You really should go now."  
He sighed, pulling her even closer if it was possible. "I don't want to leave you." He kissed her brow, not able to let go of her.

"You have to and I know you can. C'mon, go with them. I know you're excited."

D'Artagnan huffed before stealing another, long and desperate kiss from Constance.

"I love you. Look after the Garrison while we're away."

She laughed, her beautiful, soft smile spreading to her sparkling eyes. "I love you too. Stay safe."

"D'Artagnan!" Athos shouted and as he looked behind him, both Athos and Porthos came forward.

"One last kiss." D'Artagnan answered, kissing Constance for another time, his hands digging into her skin as if he could hold her like this forever.

Then he heard soft laughter, felt a hand clapping on his shoulder and another pulling on his arm, away from Constance.  
He smiled back to her as Porthos dragged him towards their horses, who were all ready and packed for the long journey towards the border, towards war.

"Stay safe!" Constance shouted again as they rode out of the courtyard.

Aramis

No one had seen it coming. They could have, if they would have looked closely. But they didn't.  
The others had let Aramis' his space, which he wanted more and more in the last months.  
They hadn't noticed how his muscles had tensed at every sound that came from the woods surrounding them. They hadn't noticed how he clutched at the dagger under his blanket while wide eyes searched for an invisible enemy.

They hadn't noticed, because they didn't want to annoy him and because it wasn't anything special that Aramis was easier startled than before. It had become normal to them even though it shouldn't have. None of this was normal.

They only noticed as they heard a hitch in his breaths. And as Porthos and Athos turned to their brother his breath were rapid, one hand clutching the dagger so that his knuckles turned white and the others searching for support on the ground. His wide, glassy eyes were franticly moving – searching.

Athos and Porthos searched a short glance, before slowly walking towards their third. "Hey 'Mis, you here us?"

Aramis reacted to the voices, but there was no recognition in his eyes as he stared at them. He just seemed even more scared, sweat now dropping from his brow.

"Aramis, it's us. Athos and Porthos. You're save." Porthos assured, creeping closer. Fortunately Aramis wasn't in mood for a fight, even though he still held the dagger. Porthos laid his hand on his brothers, still talking quietly while he slowly opened his brothers fingers to take the weapon and toss it aside.

"They're all dead." Aramis whispered between harsh breaths, hands flying to his head as he closed his eyes firmly. "I tried – I couldn't save – all dead – my fault – I… - the ravens – it's-"

"Sssh." Porthos hushed, embracing his friend in a tight hug. He could feel the tremors wracking his brothers body as he tried to get his breath under control.

"We need to drag him out of this." Athos whispered, sitting down on the other side of Aramis.

"I've heard of a method for panic attacks." He announced to Porthos, who nodded. "What is it?"

"Aramis, it's Athos. Can you hear me?" Aramis turned his head towards him, but he didn't answer or really seemed to recognize him. His breathing was still too fast and they scared that he would collapse soon.

"What's your name?" Athos asked in a demanding tone. As Aramis didn't answer he took his hand in his earning the man's attention for it. "What is your name?" He asked again, slowly but still in an firm tone.

"Aramis." Aramis breathed, his hand clasping at Athos'.  
"Good. Who am I?"

Aramis blinked, confusion written on his face. "They're all dead."

"No. Answer my question, Aramis. Who am I?"

Aramis blinked again staring at Athos for long seconds before answering quietly. "Musketeer. A friend."

"What is my name?"

"I – I don't know." Aramis panted, closing his eyes again as panic overwhelmed him.

"I'm Athos. Do you remember where we are?"

"S-savoy." Aramis squeezed at Athos' hand tightly, body trembling furiously.

"No." Athos answered firmly. "I am Athos, I wasn't in Savoy. This. is. Not. Savoy. Repeat after me, Aramis. Athos and Porthos are here. They hadn't been in Savoy. This is not Savoy."

Aramis still panted but opened his mouth to follow the order. "Athos and Porthos. N-Not Savoy. Not. Savoy."

"Good. Very good. We're in the Normandy."

"Not Savoy. Athos and Porthos. Normandy." Aramis repeated, slowly relaxing and breathing more slowly even though he still clutched to both of them support.

He took a deep breath, relaxing with it even more and took a careful look around.

"We're not in Savoy." He repeated again, more for himself than for Athos.


	7. 7 Stab Wound - Aramis

_So here is Day 8 of the Whumptober Challenges. Day 7 will be included in the next Chapter. _

It should have been an easy mission.  
Riding for not even a whole day through the peaceful countryside, giving the Baron the letter from the King, waiting for an answer - a whcih shouldn't have taken long - ride back.

The letter didn't have any sensitive information, the Baron wasn't known for trouble. The roude wasn't common for ambushes. So Trevikke hadn't seen any reason to send two of his Musketeers. He may didn't dare to send a fresh recruit all alone, but one well experienced soldier should have been enough for this job.

Should.

But since when had something had ever been easy for the Musketeers? Especially for it's Inseperables, who always seemed to find trouble in the most peaceful situations?

It had all started with the Baron being sick, even close to death his family had said. So his son had taken over the duties of the Baron.  
And as hospitable and generous the old Baron had been, as respectless and angry was his son.

Aramis had to wait outside for the answering letter. Uncomfortable because of the heat, but nothing too uncommon.  
Then, hours later, the Baron finally appeared with one of his guards. Aramis had frowned then, having expected from the young man to only send a servant outside.

He wasn't sure what the letter had been about - it wasn't his place to question it. But something in it had obviously spiked the anger of the son, shown in the tight lines of his face.

Slowly Aramis approached the two men, already holding out his hand to retrieve the answering letter as it was batted away by the guard.

He frowned, a questioning look on his face as he cooked his head to the side. "I was supposed to return with an answer."

As if he had only waited for the words to leave Aramis' mouth, the guard suddenly lunged forward, taking Aramis by surprise.

The Musketeer struggled against the tight grip around his throat, but his arms were secured between his back and the Guard and his kicks seemed to cause nothing to the tall man.

"What's this about?" He asked as he tried to pull in full breaths through his constricted throat.

If he just could reach one of his weapons...

His eyes fell onto the young Baron, who's lips had twitched into an evil grin.

"The answer."

Aramis didn't understand and with the ldck of oxygen it felt hard to concentrate on the matter.  
Then, suddenly, there was a burning fire in his side, leaving him gasping for air.

The guard let go of his iron grip, giving Aramis the possibility to let his hands fall to the source of pain in his side. A dagger had been plunged into his flesh, still sticking in the wound. Blood coated his fingers as he withdrew them, confusion and anger glistening in his eyes.

His hand shot towards his gun, but as he looked up both the Baron and his guard had him already at gunpoint. "I wouldn't do this if I were you. Just leave. Maybe, you still have a chance to reach Paris."

Aramis eyes flew from the two men towards his horse, which was still tethered to a nearby tree. He didn't like to leave without a fight but he knew when he was defeated. Moreover he couldn't just kill the son of a Baron, even though he was a prick.  
So he did the only thing he could now.  
He slowly walked - or more shuffled-towards Esmé, one hand raised into the air to show that he was no threat, the other clamping around the dagger to make sure it wouldn't move.

The only moment where he turned his back to the Baron and his guard was as he mounted up, less graceful as he wanted to.  
A new wave of hot white pain shot through his torso as he climbed onto the back of Emsé.  
His hands gapped the reins tightly and he duck his heels into the body of his mare.

Esmé started to gallop, away from the Baron and towards Paris, her fast movements causing Aramis to see black spots in his vision.

He slowed down once they were out of the reach of the Baron. His hands had lost their grip around the reigns minutes ago, instead clinging to the mane, his upper body heavily leaning against the animals neck.

By now he was panting, sweat dripping down his brow. He would have done everything to be able to just stop but he couldn't.

If he would hurry he could reach Paris before nightfall. He had to reach Paris.  
Staring with glassy eyes at his shaking hands, he knew he would not be able to sew himself up here on the road. He could not even dislodge the dagger, who pierced relentless into flesh and muscles. Once the weapon would be out the wound would bleed heavily and would have to sewn soon.

Somehow he managed to open the sash around his waist and wrapped it around the dagger to hold it in place while he kept riding on.

The next few hours were a blurry haze to the Musketeer. He had dozed off more than a few times, his wound still sluggishly bleeding through his sash. He was glad that Esmé was an intelligent horse - of course she was, she was handpicked by him - so she would find the way back to the Garrison by herself.

It was already dark as they trotted through the streets of Paris. Only few habitats were still outside, no one noticed or cared for the injured man leaning across his horses back.

As Aramis opened his eyes the next time, they stood in the courtyard a worried stable boy in front of him, lips moving too fast for him to follow.

Then, the next second - or was it minutes later? - his brothers were by his side, pulling his limp from from Esmé.  
Aramis wanted to protest, dismount by himself, but before he could react he was already down, groaning as a nrw wave of pain shot through his side.

He was unconscious before they had hauled him to the infirmary


	8. 8 Isolation & Shackled

Day 7 & 9 ( Shackled&ISolation) in one Chapter.

At the beginning, he tucked and pulled at the chains. He tried to break them open by beating them against the wall.  
But soon, he had stopped to spend his precious reserves of strength for something as impossible as this. The chains were thick and wouldn't just fall open.  
All the struggles to get free had left him drained out and his wrists and ankles raw. He was sure they would be bloody, but in the sparse light of the cell he couldn't be sure.  
He had tried to find a comfortable position while he would have to wait for a rescue or a visit from his capturers. But the act had showed up to be more difficult than thought. The chain was too short to allow him to straighten his legs fully, which only left the possibility to pull them towards his chest. Like this, his arms were pulled uncomfortably low where they were tied behind his back. He would not be able to fully lean against the wall with his back, without crushing his hands. So he decided to lean sideways against the wall.

Time was a weird construct, the Musketeer thought.  
In his small cell came little light from a gap under the door, but there were no windows or anything other to give him a hint of what time of day it was. There weren't visitors neither. It felt like an eternity that he had been in there, but probably it would have been around a day. He was thirsty, his throat burned and his tongue laid heavily in his mouth. He was hungry too, but decided that he had had worst. So it couldn't been more than a day that he had been struck in there.

Later, he wished for nothing but light, water and sound. It was so silent. The only sounds were his ragged breaths, caused by the uncomfortable position. He tried to stretch his legs every now and then as far as possible, but soon he didn't had any feeling in them left beside a burning pain in his arching muscles.  
He started to speak. First he tried to imagine one of his brothers being with him, told him stories of past missions and women he used to love. But all this talking left him even more thirsty, forcing him to stop soon again and to return back to silence.

Another eternity later, there finally were sounds. Shouts, screams, metal clashing on metal.  
His brothers had come to save him.


	9. Unconscious - Porthos

"We can't go much further." D'Artagnan breathed as he readjusted the limp arm around his shoulders. His neck and back arched from leaning way too long to the right side and he wasn't sure how long his arms and legs would be able to carry the extra weight.

As he glanced over to Aramis, the marksman's face was determined but not less tensed in exhaustion than his.  
They had run through the woods for hours now, the death weight of an stubbornly unconscious Porthos between two of them. They had switched places as often as possible. Athos, who had helped carry their friend for the first hours of their run, was now at the peak of their small procession.

"There's a cave. We can hide there." Athos announced. He didn't like the thought of standing still with the bandits still on their heels but the boy was right. They were all exhausted and tired and needed a rest. Moreover, Porthos had to be treated.

That he still hadn't waken up since one of he horses had kicked him against the head had them all worrying, even though no one dared to speak it out loud.  
They dragged their friend towards the small entrance, narrow enough that only one person at a time would fit through it. Perfect to protect it, Athos thought and ushered the three men through the entrance.  
It was quite an act to get Porthos through the small gap without hurting him, but after a few attempts they had were all inside the cave. Aramis and d'Artagnan laid the prone figure of their friend onto the ground, while Athos guarded their hideout.

"How is he?" D'Artagnan asked while he watched Aramis examining the gaping wound.

"Head wounds always look worse than they are, because they're bleeding so much. He should recover, even though he had lost a lot of blood. I have to stitch the wound."

TBC.


	10. Stitches - Porthos

Of course Porthos had to wake the moment Aramis threaded the needle.  
Once his glassy eyes become more focused and he understood hat his friend was about to do Porthos thrashed. He hated needles. And he hated them most close to his face.  
"Can't we just put a bandage on it?" He rasped, his throat tight and dry from leck of water. But d'Artagnan was already by his side, offering him some water.

Porthos gulped it down before turning back to the more important topic. "You're definitely not going to plunge it into my skin." He glared daggers at Aramis who seemed unconcerned by the thread.  
"There's no other way, mon ami. Unfortunately, we can't knock you out or give you some wine. Too dangerous with a already pounding head." He smiled weakly in sympathy at the headache he knew his friends had to have.

Porthos grumbled, eyeing the needle with pure hate.  
"It's surely not THAT bad."

Aramis huffed as he took out a flask with some alcohol in it to clean the wound. "Bad enough. Now hold still."

Having enough experience to know that Porthos won't hold still, D'artagnan pinned him down by the shoulders while Aramis held his head in one hand. With the other one he poured the alcohol over the gaping wound, causing Porthos to moan in pain.

"Aramis." He then pleaded, knowing what would follow after the cleaning.

"Porthos, I won't argue with you about this. – Athos, we need your help!"

Moments later Athos sat also by Porthos' side, holding his head tightly in his hands while d'Artagnan had changed tactics and now sat on Porthos upper body to keep his legs out of Aramis' reach and still be able to hold the shoulders down.

"I hate you. All of you." Porthos growled as he tried to struggle free, but weakened as he was he hadn't a chance against his brother.

"We love you too, mon ami." Aramis smiled before he put the first stitch.  
Porthos continued his curses, all the while trying to get free, earning some muttered curses or moans from d'Artagnan who was kicked or hit by flying hands a few times.

An exhaled breath from Aramis announced the end of the torture as he sat back on his heels. "Done. And see, mon ami, you're still alive."  
Porthos grumbled something under his breath, but then also mumbled a small "thanks".


	11. Don't move - Aramis

The wind was hauling, whipping into their faces and making life just a little bit more miserable.  
Their legs were heavy and their concentration fading – but one wrong step would mean death. So they tried to keep their minds focused and spirits up. Even after days of traveling, Aramis still had storys to tell and his endless jabbering gave them something to smile of.

Aramis had to shout so that his words would be heard over the hauling wind, and most of the time he turned his head backwards as he told his storys, so the others could hear him better. Until Athos shot him an warning look, ordering him to look where he was going.

The path they were wandering was so narrow that no two people could have safely walked side by side. It was even worse for the horses, which were walking behind their riders, their hooves loosing hold on the stony ground more than once. Would one fall to his right side, it wouldn't be too bad. The high walls of the mountains would catch every fall. On the other side it looked far worse.  
The path ended abruptly to fall into a steep cliff which ended about hundred meters down in a valley.  
It was sudden as Aramis monologue came to a halt as his horse neighed, it's horses desperately searching for purchase on the suddenly thinner path, where a part of the rocks had crumbled and fallen into the canyon.

Porthos had to take a step to not be kicked by the agitated animal while Aramis pulled at the reigns and tried to pull the horse on more steady ground. His heart jumped in his chest as he noticed more stones crumble, one time right beneath his foot causing him to stumble right into the wall.  
The horse on the other side didn't find purchase. In order to not be taken with it, Aramis had to let the reigns loose and could only watch as the animal fell into it's death. With the animal, there fell more rocks from the crumbling ground, ripping a broad gap where the beast had once stood.

Aramis had to take a few steps back to flee from the opening ground and was now separate several metres from his brothers who stared at him with wide eyes.  
"I think you have to turn around. We will meet on the top." Aramis sighed. He would just take the way they had planned to take – praying that not more of the path would just vanish and the others would have to take a detour as there was no way they could cross the gap between them.

"Is the rest of your way save?" D'Artagnan then shouted over the hauling wind, as the last of their procession he wasn't even able to see Aramis.

Aramis shrugged. The ground beneath his feet was dry, crumbling but for now it seemed save. He looked into the direction where he would have to walk, the path hidden behind a curve of the mountains. He took a few careful steps forward, glancing around the curve just to stop suddenly.  
The path there had been totally destroyed. There was no way he could go into this direction. But backwards was a metre long gap separating him from the others. He gulped, before he shouted.

"It's crumbled! I have to get back!"

Slowly he walked towards the edge of the gap, thinking if he could just jump before coming to the conclusion that he couldn't.  
With each step he took he felt the ground beneath his feet crumble a little more, draught and the wind paired with his weight weren't helping.

"Okay. Just don't move Aramis! We will get you over here."

Aramis huffed but took a step closer to the safety of the wall and away from the edge, causing more ground to fall. He felt his heart hammering in his heart as every now and then stones loosened from the ground.

"Could you… hurry up a bit?"

His eyes were focused on the path he was standing on, growing slimmer with each second that past, so he didn't see d'Artagnan giving a rope through their rows until Porthos got it and bound it around his waist. Athos somehow managed to squeeze past Porthos' horse and now stood right behind him, securing the rest of the rope around his own waist.

"Catch!" Porthos then warned before he threw the rest of the length towards Aramis who caught it and eyed it sceptically.

He also bound it around his torso. He first wanted to secure it to the wall or some other rock to shimmy over the rope to the other side, but he didn't trust any of his crumbling surroundings.

"Just try to jump! We've got you!"

Porthos shouted, earning a nervous laugh from his friend.

"I will take it personal if you let me fall!" Aramis warned humorous, but his shaking voice betrayed him.  
Still, he had no choice.  
So he took a step back, as far as the rope allowed and began to run. As he jumped the round beneath his feet gave in and crumbled before he could get enough force for his jump.  
He did not even manage half of the way over the gap before he fell.

His heart had stopped working then for a moment. His breath had been struck inside him until the rope pulled tight around his torso driving it harshly out of him.  
Aramis gasped, his hands gripping the rope, on which his life dangled, so tight his knuckles turned white while the rope around his torso took all of his breath.

And then, he really didn't want to – but nevertheless, his eyes wandered down to see nothing but sharp stones awaiting him deep down.

"We've got you!" Porthos shouted just in the same moment as if he knew that Aramis, the calm and action-loving man, started to panic.

He felt a tug on the rope until he came closer to the stony walls and to the sky. Closer to safety. Once it was in his reach, Aramis grabbed the wall and tried to climb upwards or at least take some weight from the rope.  
It felt like an eternity later that he finally had steady ground back beneath his feet.

_Thank you all for your lovely reviews! _


	12. Adrenaline - Aramis

"Stop now and the consequences will be light." Athos stepped carefully forward, his hands in the air to show he wasn't a threat. In his peripheral sight he noticed Aramis following his moves.  
"Until now no one has been hurt. It was a simple robbery, the King could be merciful. But hurting or killing a Musketeer will leave him no other choice than to condemn you to the noose." Aramis argued, his voice calm, even though every muscle in his body was tensed.

While Athos' and d'Artagnan's eyes were fixed on the bandit, Aramis couldn't loosen his gaze from Porthos who laid slumped in the man's tight grip.  
If the bandit would let go and push him, the unconscious musketeer would fall down the cliff, landing in deep and raging waters. Even up there Aramis could here the waves crashing against the rocks, threatening to crush everything that came between them. Especially a unconscious, injured man who never had learned how to swim.

"No step further!" The bandit shouted, his eyes flying from one Musketeer to the other over to his dead comrades littering the ground.

D'Artagnan frowned as he studied the man's expression, a niggling feeling in his stomach.

"Aramis." He hissed, catching the marksman's attention.

"I know." Aramis answered in a hushed tone.

Athos spoke again, loud enough for the bandit to heat them and tried to persuade him to let Porthos go. While the bandits attention was drawn away from him, Aramis opened his belt and sash. Due to the hot weather he hadn't worn any cape or other heavy clothes.  
And then, d'Artagnan shouted his name the same moment the bandit let go of Porthos, pushing him off the cliff.

Aramis let his belt fall to the ground, already jumping after the unconscious form of his brother.  
A gunshot rang out before he dropped into the water, but he didn't give it any attention. He had to find Porthos.  
Aramis swam to the surface, gulping in as much air as possible while he searched for Porthos and tried not to drown by himself as the waves swept him with them.  
Not far away from him he recognized the familiar brown of Porthos' clothes.

As good as a swimmer as Aramis may have been, swimming against the stream was hard and he was drowned more than once on his way to his unconscious brother, who sometimes was above the surface just to be taken by the waves and fade in the dark water.

He somehow made it to the still prone form of Porthos, chest heaving heavily and a threating cough settling in his lungs. But he couldn't stop now, even though his legs and arms were heavy and he wasn't sure how to ever get out of this wet hell.  
Another wave threatened to take Porthos away again, so Aramis slung one of his arms around his friends chest fast, before he laid himself on the back to drag them both back to the shore.

At least they could now swim with the stream, but still the waves crashed over them and drowning both of them. Aramis gasped for air, his right arm stubbornly tight around his brothers body while his left one tried to keep them both over water. It was getting harder with every second, their leathers and Porthos' weight dragging them down faster than Aramis could paddle.  
He didn't have any feeling left in his arms, his chest burned brightly with lack of air and effort, but he refused to let them both die now.  
He felt the familiar rush of adrenaline in his veins, the blood pulsating heavily in his ears – so loud he could barely hear the crashing waves or the shouts of their brothers.  
So Aramis kept swimming.

He hadn't noticed how far he has come until he felt strong arms around his torso and saw Porthos being gently taken from his grip.  
D'Artagnan and Athos dragged them out of the flat water and onto the dry sand.  
Aramis stayed there staring at the sun above him until his chest stopped heaving.  
As he stood up, his knees buckled sending him back into the sand.

Suddenly, everything hurt and was way too heavy to be connected with his body.

"Rest, 'Mis. You're exhausted."  
He nodded, but already had drifted off.


	13. Tear stained - AramisAnne

It had to be over a decade since he had last seen her like this.  
And he wondered, if he just hadn't seen the tears streaming down her face for all the years - if she was so good at hiding her pain or if he was just blind for it.  
Then, the last time he had seen tears streaming down her face, it had been on the funeral of her husband, the King. She had told him how it had never been real love between the both of them, still Louis and Anne had shared something together. Being married so young to a stranger, forced into the life they had had bonded them in a different kind of way that love could.  
So she had cried then, because she missed him somehow. Bust most importantly because she was scared of the life that would follow. Because without Louis everything seemed so uncertain, unsave.

But then, things had changed. For the first time in her life SHE had been the one to make the decisions. And she had felt save.

D'Artagnan had done great work with the Musketeers, protecting the city just as well as the Palace. Constance still was a consent comfort by her and her sons side.  
And then there was Aramis. The most important decision she had ever made.

And now he thanked her for the life he got to live like this?

He had done everything to keep him alive - and away from the dangerous life as a Musketeer - and close to his son and the woman he loved. And now, he just wanted to leave?

She felt unsave again. Again, everything seemed to be so uncertain. Who would be the next First Minister? Would everything work out?  
How could she live without the love they both had shared?

"Te amo, Anna." He whispered, eyes full of love, guilt and pain. But there was also a familiar glint of determination.  
"But that is not the life that God had wanted me to live."

"And why else would he have gifted us a son?" She hissed, sounding angrier than she was. She understood him, she really did. But it hurt. And she just couldn't let him go.

Aramis looked around startled, scared that anyone would have heard her words. But they were alone.

"I don't know. But I know I should be out there. Fighting the battles, not ordering them to be fought."

"You can't just leave!" She ran out of arguments, Anne knew it. So she got deaperate.  
"You're too old anyway. Even Louis is faster than you now. You wouldn't stand a chance in a real battle."

Aramis sighed, a sad smile tugging at his lips. He knew Anne too well to be hurt by her words. Instead of answering, he stepped forward to place his hand against her cheeks gently, his thumb wishing away a tear, that was quickly followed by another.

"I am sorry, mi amor. But I can't just stay here forever. But when I come back, when the war is finally over, I will there only for you and our son."

'If you come back' Anne thinks but brushed the thought back fast. She shouldn't think like this. So she wiped away the last tears, forcing herself to a slight smile.

"Just don't forget met."


	14. Scars - All

Behind every scar there is a story.

Some were obvious, like Athos' scar on his lip, separating his upper lip since his birth. It told the story of a child defaced since it's first day on earth. But also of a noble family, rich enough to sent for a surgeon and save their child from heavier consequences than a scar. Untreated, a harelip like his could have been deathly.

Other scars may were just as obvious, but the story to them was a myth to most but to them who were supposed to know the truth behind it.  
Porthos had learned long ago that scars – as ugly they could be – also showed strength. And he had learned that people were scared of scarred people just because of this strength and the reasons that could have caused this scar. A vast scar like the one he carried on his face, he had learned, was especially threating to strangers. Often it came in handy.

People didn't try to start a fight with him, because there was this story that he had fought with a bear and survived. Others, were running out of his way and avoiding any form of contact, because they thought he had earned the scar in a street fight against six men.

Then, there were the people who stared and whispered the moment they saw it. They had heard he was a searched murderer. Sometimes he liked to be frightening like this, it made many things easier.  
But it made finding friends harder. There were only few people who knew the story behind the scar. Five to be concrete. Aramis, Athos, d'Artagnan, Flea and the one who had caused it, Charon. The day Porthos had announced that he would leave the Court of miracles, that he would start a new life as a soldier in the infantry, Charon had clearly shown him what he had thought of it.  
Then there were the scars which, if the story behind them was told correctly, could impress, fascinate, inspire and even seduce. It was a perfect mix of the placement of an obvious, but well healed and not ugly scar on Aramis' crook of the neck, his good looks and his way with words that would impress anyone. The story he told sounded more heroic than it truly was to be shot in the first minutes of a battle. But Aramis managed to emphasize the right parts – that he kept on fighting with his left hand, that he was one of the first soldiers that had rushed into the battle – and to leave the less heroic parts – like falling unconscious right in front of his Captain's feet, bleeding through his clothes or screaming as the bullet was removed – out.

A different kind of scars blossomed on d'Artagnan's skin. Scars that hadn't been made yet. Suntanned skin untouched by the nightmares of soldiering. It was his story that each fellow Musketeer and soldier knew once they looked at him properly. No wounds, no scars – no experience. And it were these scars which untold stories were the worst. Because they were so obvious because they weren't there. A soldier without injuries was worth nothing in the ranks of the army.

Of course his brother knew. They knew how he struggled with it. That any fellow soldier they met, even the Red Guards, knew on first gaze that he was new. But they also knew his true worth and that his lack of experience meant nothing in the face of his skill. They comforted him with the unfortunate knowledge that enough injuries and scars would follow in his time between the Musketeers.


	15. Pinned down - Porthos

There was a rumbling sound, louder and longer than thunder. It caused them to stop in their tracks, eying the part of the tunnel from where they just had come with suspicion.

"What was that?" Porthos asked, his torch not giving enough light to see the reason for the sound. Aramis shrugged, muscles tensed as he stared into the darkness, waiting for something to happen.

"Maybe it's the echo of the thunder?" He guessed, not quiet convinced by himself.  
Then, the sound grew came again. Louder this time, closer. The sound was followed by something shattering. Something big and hard.

"Stones." Aramis gasped, as the first small debris started to fall onto their heads.

"RUN!" He pushed Porthos forwards, urging him to run deeper into the tunnel as bigger and heavier rocks loosened from the ceiling and closing the way they had come through. Aramis was faster than Porthos and grabbed his friend's arm to tug him behind, trying to urge him to be just a little bit faster. The stones were catching up with them. Porthos felt them fall right behind his heels.

One caught his foot, causing him to stumble. Weren't it for Aramis tight grip he would have fallen and crashed by another rock. Aramis pulled him further, but the moment of imbalance had been enough. Porthos was too slow to avoid another stone catching his leg and pulling him to the ground. Aramis' finger lost their grip on his arm as he watched his brother fall with horror.

Porthos scream echoed in the tunnel, even louder than the thundering of the raining ceiling. Aramis wanted to rush to his friends aid but more rocks were falling, separating him from his friend for the moment. Aramis managed to squeeze into a narrow crack in the wall, hiding there from the still falling stones while praying for his friend. It felt like an eternity until the thundering sounds had passed and a deathly silence fell over the tunnel.

Aramis waited no second longer than necessary to slip out of his hiding space and climb over the first rocks. "Porthos?!"

With their torches gone and shattered from the rocks it was pitch black now. Aramis found his way by feeling only, stumbling and falling over the uneven ground. "PORTHOS?!" He screamed louder as now answer came.  
Then there was a pained grunt. "Here." Aramis followed the voice, it couldn't be far.  
"I'm here." Aramis assured as he felt soft flesh beneath his fingers and squeezed what he thought was an arm.

"I'm… trapped." Porthos was strained with pain.  
"Where?" Aramis searched for the reason for his brothers pain and found another stone promptly.  
"My leg. I can't get it out."

Aramis gulped as his hands roamed over the stone, trying to make out it's size and weight.  
"Do you think it's broken?" He asked, his fingers finding the bottom of the rock. Careful to not touch Porthos' wound he tried to lift it, but the stone didn't move an inch. "It's too heavy."

"Not reassuring." Porthos muttered through gritted teeth. "It hurts like hell in my thigh."

"And your shin and foot?" Aramis asked, a dreadful feeling burning in his chest as his mind raced through possibilities to lift the stone and how to treat Porthos' injurie.  
"I don't think that I can feel it." Porthos admitted, voice laced with not only pain but also fear. "Do you think-"

"I don't know." Aramis answered curtly, not daring to think about the possibilities. Not thinking of what he would have to do should Porthos have lost the feeling in his leg.  
"But I have an idea." He muttered an unsheathed his sword.

"Tell me should I accidently cut you." Before Porthos could ask what the hell Aramis was doing he felt the cold metal of his sword slipping between the stone and his other – not so much hurting – leg.

"Can you wriggle out of the way when I tell you to?"  
Porthos grunted a 'yes', even though he wasn't sure if he really could.

"Good. Because if the stone crashes down on you again-" Aramis shook his head to clean his mind and braced himself. "Ready? 3. 2." He pushed down onto the handle of his sword with all his weight, one foot also pushing against the rock to get it moving.

"One!"

Porthos felt the stone move first from his uninjured leg and then from the other one, a new wave of pain spasming through his limb as he forced himself to roll out of the way. Not a second later there was a crash and Aramis breathed out loudly.

"Let's get you out of here."

Aramis slung an arm around his shoulder and heaved him upwards, earning a paint grunt from Porthos.  
"How's the leg?" Aramis asked as they somehow wriggled through the stony mess on the ground.  
"Nothing changed." Porthos hissed, eyes clenched in pain as they moved.

"It's not far." Aramis assured and was right as they soon reached light and the end of the tunnel.  
He helped Porthos down right in front of the entrance and kneeled beside him.  
Porthos' thigh was bloody and the unnatural shape of it confirmed a fracture.

"Do you feel this?" Aramis asked as he poked at his friends knee.

Eyes closed against the pain and the fear, lips pressed tightly together, Porthos shook his head. "No."

Aramis gulped, the hairs on his neck standing up as his breath was struck in his chest. He suddenly felt sick as he kept on examining the leg.

"Will you amputate it? Like you did with Gerome?" Porthos asked, wide eyes staring at his brothers. Pleading for a reassuring answer.  
Aramis couldn't lie but he also couldn't give up hope.

"This-" he pointed at Porthos leg, "is beyond my knowledge, mon ami." Aramis wished he could help him. Do anything. But this wasn't anything he had ever dealt with before. Porthos leg was still fully attached to his body and even though he had lost feeling in his shin it still seemed to be supplied.

It maybe wasn't completely lost like Gerome's. He shuddered at the thought of the boy and the act of amputating a limb. It had been the only time he had to do it and prayed that it would stay like this. It was gruesome.  
He feared he would ruin the limb if he did anything wrong by treating the fracture the wrong way. But he also feared to ruin it by doing nothing now.  
"Athos and d'Artagnan should arrive soon. They will get a doctor from the village. It's not that far."

There wasn't another option he could think off now. Moving Porthos was too dangerous given the circumstances.  
"Aramis?" Porthos breathed, eyes shut again against the pain.  
"Yes, mon ami?" Aramis asked, taking his brothers hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"I don't want to loose my leg like Gerome."

"You won't." Aramis answered. And hoped that he was right. He would not be able to stand by while Porthos' muscles and bones were sawn.

….

"What happened?" Athos asked from his horse.  
Once he had seen them coming, Aramis had jumped to his feet and came running towards his friends. He gave a short report of what had happened. "You need to ride to the village. Get a doctor."

"Can't we transport Porthos into the village?" D'Artagnan asked but Aramis shook his head.  
"We shouldn't move him unless a doctor says so. Now ride. Hurry up."  
D'Artagnan nodded curtly and didn't lost a moment more before he turned his horse around and spurted it towards the village.  
Athos stayed with them, helping by building a fire as it started to get dark and colder.  
Porthos had fallen asleep – or into unconsciousness – after Aramis had given him some strong herbs to chew on. At least they helped.  
It was not even an hour later as d'Artagnan and a man his his fourtys, bulky and more looking like a butcher than a doctor, arrived.  
Luckily the lad had explained the situation on their way to the three men, so they didn't loose any more time. The doctor kneeled beside Porthos, inspecting the wound.  
Aramis took place on the other side of his brother, following the doctor's movements with a keen eye.  
"We need to set and splint the fracture. As there is still blood running through his leg, I would not amputate it yet. Maybe his nerves are cut or impacted and that's why he has no feeling in it."

Aramis let out a breath of relieve at the information. As he first saw the man he had feared that he would just want to amputate the leg. Many field medics would have acted the ways – they had been just like butchers. But this man, despite his first appearance, seemed to be more experienced.  
As the doctor started to set the bone, Aramis was glad that Porthos was still unconscious.  
The following tasks were fast done and there was nothing more left than to pray that Porthos would regain his feeling.


	16. Stay with me Porthos & Aramis

Continuing from 8. Stab wound.

Porthos paced the room up and down, hands fidgeting with the scarf he had had wrapped around his head before, his gaze flickering over to the unconscious form of his brother.  
"How long does it take to fetch a doctor?!" He growled, frustration rising.  
Athos looked at him with an equal measure of worry in his eyes, his hands keeping the dagger impaled in their brother in it's place. Which was good, as Aramis came back to his senses with more movement than was good for him. He groaned in pain as the blade moved inside him, his eyes suddenly wide open as he remembered what had happened.  
"Where..?"  
"In the Garrison." Porthos reassured and took his brothers hand in his to give it a gentle squeeze. "You're save."  
"No… Not save." Aramis murmured, eyes glassy from the fever that had started to burn under his skin. He opened his mouth again to explain to his brothers but only a pained gasp was leaving his lips.  
"Ssh." Porthos hushed and stroke some of the sweaty hair out of his face. "We're here. D'Artagnan is fetching a doctor. You're save. You will be fine."

"No, no. You don't…." Aramis squeezed his eyes shut against the pain that overcame him in waves once he spoke and strained his abs.

"Don't speak, 'Mis. You will be okay, yes? You can tell us what happened later. For now, you're save."

Before Aramis could argue and try again to speak, the door crashed open an d'Artagnan burst in, doctor Lemay in tow.

Lemay didn't waste any time on greetings as he rushed to Aramis side and examined his wound.  
"Has he brought up any blood?" He asked, voice tensed as he gently peeled away the fabric around the wound.  
"No. I don't think so." Porthos answered, anxiety rising in his chest.

"That's good. Very good." Lemay breathed in relief but once he looked up to Aramis' face his own fell back into a tense mask. "He's battling a fever, though. The wound is probably already infected. How long had the knife been in there?"

While he waited for an answer he ripped the rest of Aramis' shirt open for better access to the wound.

"We don't know." Athos admitted, not wanting to imagine how long his brother had to ride with a dagger impaled in his flesh.

"Noon." Aramis gasped between shallow breaths.  
"That's quiet a while." Lemay muttered to himself and laid out his utensils and then looked into the three worried faces surrounded around the bed. "If you would help me, gentlemen?"  
The three acted immediately, taking hold of Aramis chest, arms and legs to keep him from moving too much.  
Knowing what would happen, Aramis bet down on the collar of his doublet.  
Then everything happened fast, even though it didn't feel like it for Aramis. He felt the blade slice through muscles and flesh again as it was moved. Felt how the wound clenched around the gaping hole as Lemay pulled the dagger out. Aramis buckled from the bed, letting out a heart wrenching scream. Another but quieter one followed as Lemay poured alcohol over the wound, burning on the sensitive spot as if it were fire.  
"I have to cut some of the infected flesh off." Lemay than announced as he took a small but very sharp knife from the small table placed behind him.  
Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan renewed their efforts in holding Aramis down, who laid gasping and moaning underneath them.  
Lemay worked as fast as possible, but there were things that couldn't be rushed. In the sensitive area of the stomach he had be careful with every cut he made while Aramis struggled against the tight grip on his arms, lost in his own world of pain.  
Thankfully, Aramis fell unconscious by his second cut and allowed his brothers to let go off him while Lemay efficiently stitched up the heavy bleeding wound. He then put a salve on the wound and wrapped it with fresh bandages before leaving with the information that he would come back in the morning.  
Meanwhile, Aramis stayed unconscious but no less restless. He thrashed, sweat dripping down his skin as hands twisted in the sheets. "Not save." He breathed. "Listen."  
"We're here." D'Artagnan hushed as he put a wet towel on Aramis' hot brow.

Hours wore on and Aramis still had to regain consciousness. The thrashing had stopped, leaving him deathly still and pale. It was even more worrying than all the muttering. You could have mistaken him for a corpse as he was almost as white as the sheets beneath him, his breath only moving shallowly.  
By now the room had turned almost as dark as the courtyard, only illuminated by a few lonely candles. The flickering of the flames was caught in Porthos' dark eyes, as he sat by his brothers side. Every few minutes he changed the towels on his brow and around his calves against fresh and cold ones. But the hot skin seemed to take all the coolness and wetness from them in seconds.  
There was no chance to give Aramis enough of the medicine Lemay had left with them. They had tried to feed it to him, but most of precious liquid had been spilled on the pillow.  
Porthos sighed, laying his head onto the mattress near Aramis' arm, exhaustion and worry battling inside his body, which craved after sleep. But his mind would not let him find peace any time soon, not when Aramis was fighting for his life. Porthos took his friends hand in his, squeezing it gently.  
"Don't you dare to leave us now." Porthos urged. "Fight." He ordered, lifting his head again and staring at Aramis' pale face as if his will alone could heal him.

The next day passed in a blurry to Porthos. He had eaten at some point, had walked around in the courtyard for a few minutes, at had dozed off by Aramis' side as exhaustion had finally won out.  
But then the next evening came and time moved a little faster, as his brother started to move again in his sleep. Soon, uncoherent spoken words joined his movements. Then there were his eyelids, fluttering open, slowly as if it were heavy work to lift them.

"What happen'd?" Aramis rasped, tongue thick in his mouth. Porthos eased his head from the pillow to give him some water mixed with the medicine. "You were stabbed, that's all we know." He lifted the cup to Aramis' mouth but once the smell reached Aramis' nose he shook his head.  
"I remember." Aramis tried to push himself upwards but his limbs wouldn't cooperate just yet. He couldn't fight Porthos off who was gently but determined holding him down.

"Drink this first." He pleaded, wanting to follow the doctors instructions to the point as long as they were to help his brother.  
Aramis shook his head again. "No… can't rest now… The duke-" he took a moment to regain his breath, the pain still overwhelming him with each breath.  
"His son …. Did it. He's surely planning …. Something.. Against the… King."  
"He already acted against him." It was Treville's stern voice that rang through the room, stilling the soldiers in their moves and earning questioning looks.  
"Attacking a Musketeer in his Majesty's business is certainly treason. I will notify the King of this. And you-" Treville pointed a finger at Aramis. "Will stay with Porthos and the others. In the Garrison."

The door fall closed behind Treville, leaing Aramis grinning sheepily at Porthos. "He didn't say I had… to stay in the… infirmary."  
"But I do." Porthos growled and pushing the cup of medicine against his brothers lips. This idiot should rest and heal before he would run around the Garrison like a lunatic again.


	17. Muffled Screams - Aramis

He had been tortured before. Beaten into unconsciousness, pushed under water until his lungs burned for air or kept in darkness for days.  
But this was different. This was worse.

There was no way he could escape the torture. There wasn't the option to fight against his torturers or to hope for a rescue from brothers.  
He couldn't even pray that death would save him from this ordeal, because physically there was no threat against his life.  
Aramis hadn't got a clue how to get out of his misery. He had taken a lodging faraway from the Garrison after he had been healed enough to leave the bed. Like this, at least the others wouldn't notice. But he also was alone.

And it was the worth when he was alone. In the evening, when he laid down and closed his eyes. When he tried to give his body the long needed rest, they came. There hadn't been a night without them before his inner eyes. Screaming, bleeding, dying.

It was slightly better to stay awake. And that he did, as long as possible. But even if it was better, it wasn't okay yet. When the darkness consumed all the light, leaving only a few flickering candles behind that threw dangerous dancing shadows on the walls, they visited him. Standing in front of his window, staring into his room, right inside his soul with their white, empty eyes. He always felt colder then, as if he was back in Savoy. Or like a ghost just had entered his house.

He had always got a fire going, but it was never enough.  
By now, he had made curtains out of old sheets to shield from their view. He had bought as many candles as possible to keep the darkness out. He tried to stay awake and his mind occupied with reading or praying. But there was always a moment where they managed to break into his head, grabbing his heart with icy fingers and squeezing the air out his lungs.  
And when he became too tired and his body finally gave in to get at least a few hours of sleep he lived through the massacre again and again until his lungs burned from screaming and his sheets were clamp from sweat.

Aramis soon noticed that it got easier in company. At least when he stayed awake. So he started visiting the taverns and when even these got empty and left him alone in the darkest hours of the night, he visited a Lady. There was always a woman waiting for him, no matter how late he would come, someone would be there. He was careful to leave before he could fall back asleep with a beautiful lady in his arms. He didn't want to frighten them, didn't want anyone to see.  
He found a steady rhythm and somehow lived through the upcoming weeks like this. And even though the rings under his eyes were dark and his hands always a little bit too shaky and his mind somehow muddled, he managed to get through without further accidents.

Until his first longer mission since the massacre came. It was a simple mission but they would have to right with six men to the countryside to escort some duke to the King. It was a three days ride to the Duke – meaning six nights to sleep in the presence of others, sleeping in Inns that weren't familiar to him or outside.  
He had felt sick all night and morning before their departure, his hands were clammy inside his gloves and there was this thick rope wrapped around his chest, closing ever tighter with each hour passing.  
The saddle felt heavier in his arms as he heaved it up on Esmé and tightened the straps. The others were no where to be seen yet – probably still getting breakfast. He didn't want to eat anything. So, to have something to do, he readied the five horses he knew where belonging to the men joining him. And just as he was ready with the last horse Rafael, Luca, Porthos, Gabriel and Athos were coming to the stables, greeting him cheerful.

"This will be great. Six days enjoying the beautiful weather with nothing to worry about." Porthos grinned and mounted up, following the lead of Athos.

Aramis just nodded in response as he also mounted up. He got a lot to worry about.

They rode until the sun started to set. Relatively close to Paris there were still many villages and twice as many Inn's they could sleep in. Aramis was glad that they wouldn't have to sleep outside, but after checking the coins Treville had given them, they agreed to only meet two rooms.  
Would he had the money, Aramis would have paid for an own room from his own income – but just as every other soldier, he was glad to have enough coins to buy food and pay his lodging. So he had to settle in a room with Athos and Luca, while the other three shared a room up the hallway.  
Luca fell asleep once he laid down, unlike Athos and Aramis. Aramis settled down with a book on one of the chairs, desperate to stay awake as long as possible without being conspicuous. He cursed Athos who obviously didn't need much sleep either and had spread two maps on the bed he already sat on.

Aramis couldn't help but to look over to him from time to time. Thinking with a clenching heart that this once had been his task, his position. It once had been his decision which route to take and it had been him who would advise Treville in which Soldiers were best suited for a mission.  
But he had failed them all. Since the massacre Treville had pushed him away, hadn't even tried to give him some of his responsibility back. And Aramis didn't want it – he thought. He didn't want to be guilty for something like Savoy ever again. But he couldn't deny the sudden jealously that rose as he watched Athos. He noticed how the new lieutenant drew lines on the card on which routes they could take and made crosses where bandits or other risks would wait.

Aramis fought the urge to give him tips, even though he thought he could have done the work much quicker. But then he shook the thoughts off. He was being unfair to Athos.

"You should sleep too." The otherwise silent lieutenant suddenly spoke up and rolled up his maps. "We will rise early in the morning." Aramis smiled weakly and forced himself to a nod.

He waited for Athos to lie down before he dropped down beside him, turning his back to the lieutenant and staring at the last burning candle in the room.

Aramis was glad to have survived the night without falling asleep, but his body took revenge by noon. He could barely stay upright in his saddle, his eyes falling shut every now and then before he would rip them open in shock.  
He almost felt thankful as they stopped for the night in a small clearing, surrounded by trees and a small creek not far away.

Once he had dismounted he felt slightly more awake, moving helping wonders. So he helped Luca to struck a fire while Porthos and Gabriel were hunting and Athos searched for more firewood. He almost managed to ignore the hovering trees, to ignore the lurking darkness between their thick trunks or the rustling sounds of animals running through the bushes.  
Once the fire was burning high and Porthos and Luca had returned with three rabbits to roast, he sat as close by the flames as possible without being burned. He felt some of the coldness leaving his body, but he never managed to feel warm.

He forced himself to eat some meat to sustain his strength and then nominated himself for the first watch. He thought about not switching it and just to stay awake a second night but soon he felt his eyelids drop again and exhaustion winning over.  
The sound of bird flying through the trees startled him from the doze he had fell in, causing his heart to race in his chest and reminding him of the dangers out there. No, if he couldn't be trusted to guard them properly he had to wake someone.

So he woke Porthos, who had earlier volunteerd for second watch and laid down on his bedroll by the fire.  
But as much as he needed it, he couldn't sleep. Once his eyes fell close, there was a sound startling him awake or one of many gruesome images flickering in his mind. He couldn't risk to wake them all by having a nightmare but he knew he had to sleep. His body would not be able to stay up much longer.  
So, with his back turned to Porthos, he took one of his gloves and his belt. He tried to be as silent and inconspicuous with his movements.  
Once he was done, without Porthos noticing anything, he allowed his body to fall into a restless sleep.  
…

Porthos had just woke Athos for his turn as a muffled scream ripped through the otherwise silent night. Both their eyes searched for whatever could have caused the sound, hands already on the hilts of their swords.  
Another scream followed soon and then, in the flickering light of the flames, they noticed Aramis trashing from on side to the other side.  
They both shared a uncertain look. Should they wake him or act like they hadn't noticed? Aramis could feel ashamed if he knew they had noticed him having a nightmare.  
But as his trashing became stronger they agreed silently to investigate. Once close enough to see details in the dim light, they froze on the spot.

"Is this-"  
"A selfmade gag? Yes." Athos frowned, kneeling down beside Aramis and placing a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. This would at least explain the muffled screams.  
"Why?" Porthos asked, worry openly shown on his face as he sat down on the other side of Aramis.  
"So we wouldn't hear him scream." Athos explained, a hint of sadness in his normally composed voice.

Porthos shook his head. Aramis should not have done this to himself and should not be scared or ashamed of them seeing him having a nightmare. Every men had them, soldiers especially.  
"He must have known that he wouldn't sleep peacefully." Porthos then observed.

Athos nodded and as another scream broke through the glove struck in Aramis' mouth, held tight by his belt wrapped around his head, he shook the man's shoulder.  
The reaction was immediate. Aramis sat up straight, his hands wrapping around Athos' arm with a deathlike grip. His eyes were wild and sweaty strains hung into his face.  
"It's okay. Just us." Porthos hushed, hands already opening the belt around the marksman's head. Slowly, Aramis came back to his senses and once the gag was removed he looked down ashamed.

"I'm sorry." He rasped, voice hoarse from screaming.  
"There's nothing to be sorry about. Except for gagging yourself." Porthos shook his head in disbelief at the action.  
"I didn't want –" Aramis stopped midsentence not really knowing what he didn't want. To wake them? To embarass himself?  
"Just don't do it again." Athos said softly. "I know we don't know each other well, but you don't have to feel ashamed for anything like this."

"Exactly." Porthos agreed. "You can talk to us, if you like. Or we just sit here?"

Aramis didn't know what to say, he didn't want to speak if he was true to himself.  
But company didn't sound so bad. It was always worse when he was alone.  
But since Porthos and Athos knew about his troubles, he had never been alone again. And it was better like this. Better in their company.


	18. Asphyxiation - Athos

"It should heal in a few weeks. But till then I order you to rest it. And you should take something against the pain. At least for the first days." Aramis turned his back to him to search in the shelf for the right vial.  
Athos wanted to argue, to say that it actually wasn't that bad. But not even he could ignore the pulsating pain rushing through his arm in veins. He knew he wouldn't be able to close a eye with the pain and he desperately needed some sleep.  
This mission just had gone completely wrong. For all of them. His gaze shifted towards the other second beds with the sleeping forms of d'Artagnan and Porthos on them.  
Aramis had treated them first as their injuries were more several than just a broken arm. Athos was glad at least Aramis hadn't been hurt too bad. With doctor Lemay away on some journey, they otherwise would have had to get help from some unknown butcher-like medic.  
"They will heal too." Aramis suddenly spoke, a comforting smile on his face as he noticed Athos worried glance. The swordsman just nodded. He truly believed him, but nevertheless it was never easy to see your brothers injured or sick.  
"Take a sip of this one. Lemay had brought it back from one of his trips to the countryside. It's new and supposed to stop the pain without making feeling dizzy. I've tried it myself already."  
Athos nodded. He didn't understand much from herbs and all these gruesome smelling liquids but he trusted Aramis. So he took a small sip and gave Aramis the bottle back.  
The effect was almost immediate.

Athos had just pulled his legs up on the bed and leaned against the pillows in his back as a tingling sensation spread in his lungs. He coughed and found he couldn't stop. His lungs burned and he sacked forward in order to stop the cramps in his stomach that came from coughing too hard.  
Aramis was by his side immediately, a comforting hand on his back rubbing gentle circles while a other held onto his chest, trying to keep him upright.  
"Athos? You alright?"

Athos wanted to answer something, assure his brother that he probably just swallowed wrong but just another cough came out followed by a restricting feeling in his chest. Once the cough had weakened he tried to breath in but found that way too little air filled his lungs. His eyes grew wide in panic as breathing became hard work. He heard Aramis course and suddenly his hands were gone and Athos alone. He panicked, desperately trying to get some oxygen as it grew harder and harder to breath.  
He noticed movements by his side, but everything around him became blurry, his eyes watered and soon tears fell down his face. He was confused. He didn't feel an urge to cry, even though panic had consumed him.  
Then, suddenly, there were cold hands on his face. It was Aramis, he recognized his voice but the words didn't reach him. Normally Aramis hands weren't cold. He would have frowned, weren't he so busy with gasping for air. He realized, it weren't Aramis' hands that were cold but his face that was hot. What was happening to him?

The hands on his face became less gentle as they prodded his mouth open and then there were fingers inside, going in way too deep. Athos gagged and tried free himself of the unwelcomed grip, but Aramis wasn't giving in and pushed deeper until Athos couldn't it in anymore.  
There suddenly was a bucket in his lap in which he vomited. The gentle hands were back at his back and the reassuring voice of his brother ringed in his ears.  
But, as unpleasant the experience may had been, he found that he could breath a little bit easier now.  
"Drink." He then heard Aramis before a cup was pressed to his lips. Athos gulped the content down, finding that it was only water a not one of the bitter tasting herbs. He felt exhausted, his head cloudy and heavy as he leaned back against the pillows.

"What was that?" He rasped, throat burning as he spoke.  
Aramis sighed, his hands brushing through his hair. One of his few tells.  
"I guess you don't tolerate the substance I gave you. It happens sometimes. Some people suffocated after eating nuts or other have to sneeze and get burning eyes once they're close to animals. I fear it were the painkiller that caused you this. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have given it to you without learning more about it before. I' shouldn't-"

"Sssh." Athos closed his eyes against the thundering pain in his head. "You did nothing wrong. I'm fine, yes? And that's all that counts."

Aramis sighed but didn't argue anymore. As Athos drifted off he threw the vial from Lemay away.

Don't worry, I will soon show you what had happened on the mission that had lead to the injured Musketeers!

But first there will be a part continuing from where this one stopped.

Thank you all for your lovely reviews!


	19. Trembling - Aramis

**Continuing from chapter 18.**

Constance placed the basket under one arm to open the door to the infirmary with he other one. She was glad it were just washed sheets and some fresh apples in it and nothing too heavy or else the walk from her house towards the Garrison could have gotten unpleasant.  
Once she got to hear what had happened she had packed the things she knew would be needed and rushed over to the Musketeers regiment.  
She pushed the door open and sidestepped through, putting the basket aside before closing the door again. The air in the room was thick, but she knew it would have his reasons when Aramis or whichever doctor they had summoned had kept it closed.  
She first noticed three filled beds, all three men on them in various states of health. As much as she could see they were all breathing and not battling any fevers. Then her gaze drifted to the side where a table and a shelf stood against the wall. With his back to her was Aramis. Hands placed on the wooden desk, head hanging low, she only heard his shallow breaths.  
"Are you okay?" She asked quietly to not startle him as she stepped closer.  
Aramis probably hadn't noticed her entering and hadn't heard her now as he didn't move an inch or gave an answer.  
"Aramis. It's me, Constance." She then announced a bit louder and stepped to his side. Since she had came closer to the Musketeers regiment, especially to these four soldiers, she had seen men in shock or confusion more often than she liked.  
She noticed his arms trembling, sending tremors through his whole body, while his chin rested against his chest. His eyes were closed tightly as he breathed through whatever was paining or worrying him.

"Aramis." Constance said again, now more forcefully. She didn't dare to touch him yet. She had seen him once in a similar state before. It was after all the happenings with Savoy and Marsac, who he had to kill, as he had fallen in some kind of shock. Then, she had approached him not as careful as now and he had latched out at her.

"Aramis!" She was relieved as the marksman was finally ripped out his world, his head snapping up and glassy eyes staring at her in confusion.  
"Constance. When did you arrive?" He looked around the room with a frown on his face.  
"A minute ago. You were somehow… gone." She gently grabbed his shaking arm and guided him towards a chair.  
"Sit." She ordered but still was surprised as Aramis did as asked without discussion. He more fell onto the chair than sat down controlled, his legs stretched out. He first put his hands on his thigh, but once he saw them shaking he crossed his arms in front of chest – hoping to hide it.  
"Are you injured?" Constance then asked as she filled a glass of water.  
"No. Not severe at least." He answered truthfully. His bones and muscles arched and he would surely spot a few nice bruises tomorrow, but there wasn't anything dangerous.

"Where is Lemay?" She then asked after handing him the cup and examining the three sleeping men. Athos had a broken arm which had been set, d'Artagnan's head and shoulder had been wrapped in white bandages and Porthos' laid on his stomach, with his back also bound in white. This had to be a lot of work.  
"Away. A journey." Aramis muttered and stared at the cup in his trembling hands. He had tried to take a gulp as Constance was otherwise occupied but had only spilled some of the content.  
"Were you tending to them all alone?" She asked in shock, hands on her hips and shaking her head furiously.  
"Jacque, the stable boy, had helped me." That the boy could only hold the thrashing men down and do not any more of his work stayed unspoken.  
"Where are the other Musketeers?" Constance wanted to know. That couldn't be possible! They couldn't just let one man alone to tend to three injured men. Not after he had been with them on a failed mission.  
"Palace. There's some feast." Aramis answered drily. He was too tired to answer all these question. Why did she have to ask so much? His brain felt as if it would jump out of his scull any moment and she wanted to know things.

Constance sighed, dragging another chair to sit on the opposite of him. "You should rest, Aramis. Have you eaten anything yet?"

He shook his head and frowned slightly. He wasn't sure when he had last eaten, it's been a while. A day? Two? He wasn't sure and didn't want to think about it, it was too exhausting. He wasn't hungry anyway.

"No wonder you're shaking. When was the last time you have slept properly?"  
Aramis shrugged. It was when they had left for the mission, but right now he wasn't sure how many days it had been.  
Suddenly there was movement in front of him as Constance stood up and stalked towards the basket by the door. She pulled out an apple and handed it him before she walked over to a window to open it.  
"Don't. They will get cold." Aramis murmured tiredly, but nevertheless bit into the fruit. He hadn't the strength left to argue with Constance, who sighed and retreated from the window.  
"Lie down after you've eaten." She then ordered and got out some of the fresh sheets she had brought with her to ready another bed for him.  
She then put the other sheets over Pothos and d'Artagnan to keep them extra warm. Aramis had barely took two bites off the apple before he staggered to his feet.  
Fearing that he would stumble or just fall unconscious where he stood, Constance rushed over to him and placed a arm around his waist.  
"I really should stay awake. Look after them." Aramis mumbled as she guarded him to the bed.  
"I will stay, alright? I wake you when something happens. Promise." She grinned triumphantly as Aramis nodded slightly. It had never been that easy before to force him to his own luck.  
The marksman fumbled with the laces of his boots, but his trembling fingers wouldn't cooperate.  
"Let me." Constance made quick work of the boots and then helped him put his legs onto the mattress and places a blanket over his trembling form.  
"I will get a fire started." She announced, worrying about the coldness of the man's limbs she had witness as she had guided him to the bed.

But Aramis was already out cold, finally relaxing and some of the tremors lessening.


	20. Laced Drink - Aramis

Aramis frowned as the flames blurred into on another, ending to be just on orange spot. He blinked a few times and looked around the room a few times but it didn't get better.  
He put the cup beside the almost empty bottle and pushed himself out of the armchair just to fall right back into it as his legs gave in.  
He tried again, this time with more success. Even though his legs felt heavier as they should have been and his head lighter than ever, he managed to stay upright by prompting himself against the wall.  
What was wrong with him?

He took a wobbly step forward, almost falling down again as he stumbled over his own feet.  
As he leaned against the wall and tried to breath through the terrible feeling of dizziness he felt how dry his mouth had become even though he had just drank?  
It was a short moment of clarity in his misted mind. The wine. The wine they had been gifted from the Duke d'Orleans. The same wine his brothers had gotten too.  
He had to warn them.

Gathering his strength Aramis pushed himself off the wall and stumbled to the door. Glad that he just had to push the door instead of pulling, he managed to open it and staggered outside. The fresh air was like ice on his overheated skin and as rain hit his skin he had to fight the urge to catch the water with his mouth. God, he was so thirsty.  
He had almost forgotten about his mission to inform his brothers as their laughter beamed across the courtyard. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind with restrained success and clang to the railing as he walked over to the stairs.  
As he reached them, he finally was able to see his brothers, sitting on their usual table with three opened bottles in front of them.

"No!" He shouted, trying to get down the stairs faster as he saw Athos putting the bottle to his lips.  
Aramis soon learned the hard way that running down stairs in his state was a bad idea. He lost his footage and fell the last three steps down, landing on the wet ground with a thud and a pained groan.  
At least his spectacular entrance had the desired effect and Athos put the bottle down, frowning at him with concern. D'Artagnan was already by his side, trying to hide a laugh.

"Have you already had too much wine?" He asked, a grin on his lips as he tried to help Aramis stand. But since he had unintentionally laid down, Aramis didn't want to get up again. The throbbing in his head had lessened a bit, even though his body had more problems to orientate it self and he suddenly felt sick.  
There was to time for warning as he started retching beside d'Artagnan's feet.  
"How much did you have?" Porthos asked, voice now laced with more concern than humour as he took in the poor state his friend was in. D'Artagnan too had lost the grin and had now his hand placed on his brother's back to give him some kind of comfort.

"The wine." Aramis breathed after he was done, turning to lie on his back and let the cold rain cool down his skin.  
"Don't drink it." He added as he noticed that the other's needed more explanation than two words.  
"Why not? Because you can't tolerate some alcohol?" Porthos huffed and tried to bring some humour back in the situation.  
Aramis shook his head, wincing at the motion brought back the pain.

"It's laced." He explained, eyes now closed.

He was glad that he had already vomited and with that – hopefully - brought the most of whatever poison it was out of his system, because Aramis noticed how he slipped away slowly. He knew his brothers wouldn't have known what to do, but he hoped that the worst was already over and he would just need to sleep it off.

"Control… breathing." He only whispered before his mind shut out completely.


	21. Halucinations - Aramis

He sat on the floor, trousers wet from the snow beneath him. He had long lost any feeling in his feet and hands, who had taken on a blueish shade. He was glad his teeth had stopped shattering, even though he should have known that it was a bad sign. But at the moment, Aramis knew nothing. His mind was a muddled mess, too clouded that he could think probably.  
All he knew was that he had to stay.  
Protect his fallen brothers from any more harm.  
And he knew that he couldn't leave, even if he wanted to. Every now and then blood trickled into his eye from the head wound he had achieved. At least the cold hemmed the blood loss and the pain.  
Still there was this pounding in his skull that just wouldn't stop. After the ravens had left hours ago, it was the only sound accompanying him in the otherwise deathly silent clearing.  
His brothers hadn't made a sound since hours. The once who hadn't died right in the battle had succumbed to their wounds in the hours after that. Aramis had been helpless without any medical knowledge or supplies. He had pressed onto their wound uselessly until exhaustion had taken over, bounding him to the trunk were he leant against heavily.  
"Aramis." At first he thought he imagined the sound, but soon he heard snow crouching beneath feet again, then his name a second time. He would recognize this voice anywhere.  
"Capt'n." Aramis slurred, fighting to lift his head to look the arriving man into the eyes. There they were, gentle and comforting as ever but now there was something else too. A sadness Aramis had never seen before.  
"I'm here, you can rest now my son." Treville crouched down beside him, his fingers prodding at the wound on his head.  
"We've brought help. We'll get you home."  
As Aramis looked over the Captain's shoulder he noticed more Musketeers, living ones, filling the clearing and carrying his dead brothers to carts.  
"I can help." Aramis assured and tried to push himself to his feet, but his limbs wouldn't cooperate.  
Treville shook his head before loosening his cape and draping it over Aramis. "Rest. You've done enough."

Aramis wanted to argue that he hadn't done enough – because if he had, they wouldn't all have died – but he was already dozing off.  
As he awoke next he didn't feel cold any more. But with a sinking feeling he had to discover that he still was in the clearing with the corpses of his brothers. And Treville and the others were gone.

They had left them.  
A heavy feeling of betrayal settled on his chest, joining the one Marsac had caused as he had just walked away.  
What had he done to deserve this?  
Aramis looked up, searching for the sky, for God, to give him answers. But there were nothing but trees hovering above him in oppressive stillness.  
Involuntary, he felt a tear trickle down his cheek, growing ice cold within seconds.  
He would die out there, beside the rotting bodies of his comrades. Alone and abandoned.

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	22. Bleeding Out - Unknown

He gritted his teeth against the burning pain in his arm, hanging down uselessly while his hand clutched at the gaping wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. He knew he hadn't much time left, that he needed to find help soon if he didn't want to bleed out out there completely on his own.

And not only would he never want to die in a way like this but moreover, what kept him upright, kept him fighting, was the promise he had given.

And if it's the last thing that I do. I bring you down.

Gustav, obviously scared by the fierce look in his eyes and the poison in his voice, had then made sure to make it harder to keep his promise.

So I bear my skin.

The leader of the bandits they had searched for weeks had lashed out with his sword without warning, cutting through flesh, muscles and veins until the blade hit the bone.

He hadn't been able to hold back a scream then, tearing through the night as he fell to his knees.  
As he had looked up a moment later, Gustav and his men were gone.

Since then he was stumbling through the forest, searching for the man responsible for not only his own injuries but also the not-only-physical wounds of his loved ones.

And I count my sins.

He wondered how all of this would have worked out if he hadn't gone out to search for Gustav and his men and had stayed behind. He would have been there when the criminals had attached the village where she was resting in the room of an Inn. He could have protected her and all the others that had been injured in the ambush.

And I close my eyes. And I take it in.

The mess they were in was just as much his own responsibility as Gustav's. He should have acted differently, should have changed their route. Should have done everything except for the things he had done.

And I'm bleeding out

I'm bleeding out for you.

He wondered if she was still alive, prayed that she did. Because, if there was one thing he knew in this god damned world, it was that he would rather die himself than see her suffering anymore.

When the day has come

The blood still ran freely down his arm and he wondered if his time had come. He didn't want, no one really wants to die. But if it was supposed to be like this, he would be ready. As a soldier, death was a constant comrade, hovering behind every corner. He shouldn't be sad or scared but he couldn't deny the feeling, that he was still too young to leave already.

But I've lost my way around.

After being too lost in his thoughts for too long, he thought he had lost the trace. But as he finally looked up again, ears scanning for something tell-telling, he heard it loud and clearly.

And everything is screaming.

A new wave of pain pulsated through his arm as he renewed he efforts to follow the hushed voices of what he guessed were Gustav's and his men's.

I will reach inside just to find my heart is beating.

His lungs burned from the cold air rushing in and out while his heart hammered in his chest, trying to fight against the blood loss and the exhaustion. It would not be long until it would slow down, and then, stop eventually.

You tell me to hold on.

He thought about her, lying wounded in the room. Waiting for him to return and do what his job had been. Protect her. He had to keep going, had to full fill his promise and then return to her.

But innocence is gone

And what was right is wrong

'Cause I'm bleeding out.

A fury swept through his chest as he thought about how wrong all of this was. It shouldn't have been him bleeding out and fighting for his life. It should have been Gustave, clutching desperately on a deathly wound. But it wasn't and that was so completely wrong. He had to take things in hand and change them.

Said if the last thing that I do is to bring you down.

When the hour is nigh and hopelessness is sinking in, and the wolves all cry

When your eyes are red and emptiness is all you know.

It was the moment he saw them. They had stopped for the night, obviously thinking that they had shook him off. He grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark night like the ones of a wolf looking at his prey.

There were three of them, normally heavily armed. But they were stupid. Putting their weapons aside to sleep comfortably, only one man staying awake to watch out. They felt save.

He waited until they were settled, even though his time was precious and slowly running out. He had to do this one thing right.

As only the watch was left awake, he surged from the trees, throwing his dagger and hitting him in the chest. The man was dead before he hit the floor.

Unfortunately, Gustav and the second man hadn't slept as deeply as he had hoped. They woke at the gasp of pain of their guard, immediately jumping to their feet.

He had to hold his sword in his left hand, as his right arm wouldn't have been able to hold a sword. But he had seen them fighting and new that he was better. He could do this. He could make right what he had done wrong.

So he lashed out at the other man, engaging him in a short fighting. The man had only his main-gauche as he hadn't been able to retrieve his sword in time. So he ended soon on the tip of his sword, gurgling as blood spluttered out of his mouth.

He didn't watch the man fall to the ground but turned to Gustav immediately. The Bandit had managed to get to his weapons during the fight, pointing his sword right at him.

He grinned and attacked. He was slower to react than usually and it was harder to coordinate the sword with his weaker hand, but still Gustav hadn't have a change from the start.

He was a brute, but once swords were brought to a fist-fight he was helpless. Using the blade more like a butcher than a swordsman, he managed a few parades before the Musketeer's sword found it's target and pierced through his stomach.

Though deathly, Gustav would have to live quite long until he would succumb to the pain and bloodless.

But once he was done with his job and had fulfilled his promise, the adrenaline left the Musketeer's body and he feel to his knees, his heavy legs not carrying him any longer.

He looked down on his sleeve, blood stained and wet and gulped.

Maybe his time had come.

There was nothing he could have done, so he waited. Waited for death or his brothers to find him.

He wondered who would arrive first.


End file.
